"AH, come in, take a seat ..." the editor said.

He paused, trying to remember my name. I knew what he was thinking: - 'Monday columnist, Tuesday columnist, Wednesday columnist ...'

He brightened. "Leadbetter, isn't it?"

"Yes sir," I said dutifully.

"Had a good year?" he asked.

"It's been busy for all of us, I suppose."

"Good. Well, as a small token of our esteem..." He nodded towards a small plate containing a mincemeat pie. Next to it stood a glass of an unidentifiable soft drink, which seemed to have been poured several hours earlier. "Dig in," he said, encouragingly.

The pie was not of yesterday's baking but I was too polite to say anything.

"Well, now," he said. "I'd like your last column of the year to be about resolutions."

"Resolutions? As in U.N. resolutions?"

He gazed at me. "No," he said, as if talking to an idiot. "I mean New Year resolutions. You're bound to have made some resolutions and really kept to them."

I sipped the soft drink and grimaced. "Not since I was at primary school, I think."

He sighed. "Isn't there anything you'd like to do next year? Self-improvement, that sort of thing?"

I thought about it for a while. "I'm probably too old to start thinking about self-improvement, sir."

He stared forlornly out of the window for several moments. Clearly, the conversation was proving harder than expected.

"Places you'd like to visit? A musical instrument you'd like to learn? A dream of running with the bulls in Pamplona?"

I winced. "Fact is, I half-heartedly promised myself this time last year that I'd do some of these things ..."

"And?"

"No use. I fell by the wayside by January the third. That's why, you see, resolutions really need resolve. I just don't have that any longer." I smiled apologetically. "Too long in the tooth, probably."

He was quiet for a long time. "All I wanted," he said finally, as he massaged his temples, "was a light-hearted piece about New Year resolutions and how they can make you a better person. Not too much to ask, I should have thought."

I felt bad. "I'm really sorry I couldn't help you this time, sir," I said. I meant it.

He drummed his fingertips on his desk then gave me a weary look. "On your way out, could you send in ..." His voice trailed off.

"The Thursday columnist?"

"That's the one," he said.